<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Curse of Perfection by startraveller776</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266786">The Curse of Perfection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776'>startraveller776</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, One Shot, Writers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:02:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,920</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to love her, knows he should. After all, she’s everything he’s ever wanted. And yet, what we want is not always what we need. Writer AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Curse of Perfection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><strong>A/N:</strong> This is a repost of a fic written around 2013-ish. It's very loosely inspired by the classic Twilight Zone episode "A World of His Own."</p><p>The rating is just to be on the safe side.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>THE CURSE OF PREFECTION</strong>
</p><p>She is perfection.</p><p>Her laughter flutters across the expanse between them, teasing the corners of his lips into an involuntary grin. She never complains when he is lost in other worlds, when he is inexplicably sad, when he walks out of the flat without a word and doesn’t return for hours. She wraps her arms around his shoulders while he’s at his desk, editing his latest creation, and she presses her lips against the skin behind his ear. I love you, she whispers. You’re amazing.</p><p>Sometimes, he forgets. He pulls her into his lap, undoes the buttons of her gauzy blouse, tastes the silken flesh at the rise of her breast. She throws her head back as he sends her over the crest of heated bliss. He breathes her name when she returns the favor. <em>Emily, Emily, Emily.</em></p><p>But as they lie in tangles—her head in the hollow of his neck—he turns away, blinking back the familiar sting of tears. This isn’t real. None of it. And it never will be.</p><p>He carefully separates himself from her, and she protests playfully. He doesn’t speak as he dresses, doesn’t look at her. If he does, he’ll forget. And later, when he wakes from his self-induced ignorance, his heart will twist in aching angles.</p><p>“Where are you going?” she asks in a lazy timbre as he gathers his laptop. Her voice is honey and cinnamon, a sound he used to crave but now finds cloying.</p><p>“Out,” he says, facing her with a wan smile. She has propped herself up on her elbow, shamelessly nude, and his gaze travels the length of her unblemished bare skin. Her dark hair falls in relaxed waves over her shoulder and she looks up at him with crystalline eyes. She is part lingerie model, part Hollywood starlet. Everything he thought he wanted.</p><p>She doesn’t call after him when he leaves. She never does. Her implicit trust in him is another knot in his gut.</p><p>Outside, he slings his satchel-esque laptop case over his shoulder and shoves his hands into his coat pockets as he crosses the street. Unconscious of direction, he traverses several blocks like an automaton. A thousand thoughts scatter through his mind, from the mundane like needing to buy milk to the serious like what to do about Emily. The latter he forces away with practiced evasion. His predicament with her consumes him more each day, a slow poison leeching away any peace he thought he had. For an hour or two, he wants desperately to pretend none of it exists. It doesn’t—but not the way that matters.</p><p>He blinks when he reaches the familiar doors of the coffee shop, unaware that this is where he’s been heading. The tinny jangle of bells greets him as he ducks inside. Despite the unseasonably clear afternoon, the shades in the shop are drawn closed, creating a quiet ambience that suits his grey mood.</p><p>He scans the hodgepodge of mismatched armchairs and sofas, relieved to find his favorite corner unoccupied. After a few long strides, he settles into the creaking leather and pulls out his laptop.</p><p>“Your usual, Tom?”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks.”</p><p>He doesn’t glance up at the waitress, not until she’s left. Only then does he let his gaze follow her surreptitiously over the computer monitor. She’s a petite and curvy thing adorned in an eclectic combination of Doc Martens laced almost to her knees, a nearly-too short frayed denim skirt, and a distressed black t-shirt emblazoned with “Sarcastic comment loading.” His eyes travel from her short brunette hair, even more curly and unruly than his, to the mocha skin of her bare arms, and finally, to the fishnet stockings she wears.</p><p>She leans against the counter as she waits for his order, laughing at something the barista says. Her laughter is loud, brassy—so unlike the woman who waits for him at home. He stops himself from idly wondering what it would be like to hook his fingers in those fishnet stockings and taste that full-lipped smile. Too often he fantasizes about a different life, one where he’s not trapped by a foolish young man’s dream. One where he’s free to have her instead.</p><p>When she glances his way, his eyes dart back to the blank document on his screen, an involuntary blush burning his cheeks. Idiot. <em>Idiot</em>. He shouldn’t have come here, not fresh on the heels of his dissatisfaction. Of life. Of love. Over the last few months, he’s begun to feel things for her—this spunky young woman—that he shouldn’t feel. He wants what he shouldn’t want. Every smile she gives him is inspiration to cross a line he shouldn’t cross.</p><p>But then, can it be infidelity when what he has with Emily is not real? A rationalization with just enough truth to be dangerous.</p><p>“Writing another bestseller?”</p><p>The question startles him out of his thoughts. He looks up, his eyes falling on her nametag. Jade. An apt name for the girl with a muted verdant gaze. She hands him his coffee and he grins. “That is the plan,” he answers.</p><p>She scrunches her nose, an expression he finds endearing. “Another love story?”</p><p>He chuckles. “Always.” He’s been hailed as Britain’s grittier answer to Nicholas Sparks. He doesn’t mind the comparison; he’s under no illusions that he’ll produce something that will go down in the annals of time as a true classic. There is an audience for his work, a surprisingly large one, and that’s well enough for him.</p><p>“When are you going to write something with blood and guts or space fights?” she asks. “You know, something manly. None of this mushy kiss-kiss cry stuff.”</p><p>“Hey, love can be manly,” he protests with a laugh. She’s teased him about his work since she started working in the shop six months ago. When she told him that his last novel gave women unrealistic expectations for romance and therefore ruined lives, he instantly liked her. Emily thinks everything he produces is a masterpiece of fiction. Jade can’t stand his stories and isn’t afraid to tell him.</p><p>No, no. Don’t do that. Don’t compare them.</p><p>“You men are all gruff and grumble on the outside,” Jade says, “but you’re all a bunch of soft-hearted fools.”</p><p>He shrugs. “Guilty as charged.”</p><p>She shakes her head as she wanders off to take care of another customer. When she comes around again, he asks her when she’s off. The query slips out before he can think better of it. That line he shouldn’t cross is achingly close, brushing up against his toes.</p><p>She glances at her watch. “Five minutes ago, actually. Oi, James!” she yells at the barista. “Clock me out, will you?” She turns back to Tom. “What do you want with me?”</p><p>So many things, he thinks. And none of them appropriate. “Have a sit,” he says instead, patting the chair next to his. “Tell me about yourself.”</p><p>She gives him a stern expression as she sinks down. “You’re not going to make a character out of me, are you?”</p><p>“No.” He won’t do that again. Ever. He shakes his head and sets his laptop aside. “I just want to know you.”</p><p>“Are you flirting with me?” she says with a cheeky grin.</p><p>He licks his bottom lip and returns her smile with a tentative one of his own. “Do you find the idea repulsive?”</p><p>Her eyes widen in surprise. “You <em>are?</em> I thought… I thought that the king of romance would already have a lady love.”</p><p>His throat tightens, and he looks away, unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t.” It’s not exactly a lie, but guilt prickles like a bur in his chest all the same.</p><p>“Really?” She’s astonished at his apparent bachelorhood, but she has no idea how appalling he truly is.</p><p>“Is that why you write about love, then?”</p><p>“Because I’m a lonely old man?” He raises a brow, gives her a sardonic smile. “I don’t know. I’ve always loved, well, love. The idea of it, anyway. Maybe I’m overcompensating for my parent’s divorce.”</p><p>“Wow. That’s some deep stuff.” She nods appreciatively. “And you’re not old.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>He does feel old, though. Old enough to have outgrown the seemingly perfect life he crafted for himself. And he is lonely, even with Emily curled against his side at night. She used to be enough, but over time it’s become like living on sweets while his body atrophies from malnourishment. He craves an authentic connection, not just tangible in the physical sense, but down to his soul. He wants arguments and angst and longing. He wants to be challenged, to be held accountable for the stupid things he says and does.</p><p>He wants Jade.</p><p>This quiet yearning grows as she shares hilarious anecdotes from her childhood, as she tells him about her older brothers always scaring off her boyfriends. The waning sunlight darkens the shop while they talk, laugh. He learns that she’s just finished school and is now attempting to break into the field of animation. He tells her about the rows he had with his father over becoming a writer. She jokes that maybe his father had it right.</p><p>This is how love really blossoms, he thinks. Not in a few lines of prose, not in the lilt of poetry. But in a quiet corner of a coffee shop amid casual conversation.</p><p>He offers to escort her home and she graciously accepts. They move onto politics and religion as they amble through the neighborhood. He keeps his pace slow to make up for her shorter legs—and to draw this moment out. The inevitable consequences of this, of everything will catch him eventually, but not yet.</p><p>“This is my flat,” she says stopping in front of a three-story building.</p><p>He follows her up the steps to the door. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”</p><p>“Yeah, it wasn’t bad, was it?” She makes no move to go inside, but glances at her boots instead.</p><p>He has written about this moment a dozen times, this precipice between what could be and what will be.</p><p>He leaps.</p><p>He splays his fingers beneath her jaw, tilts her face up, and covers her mouth with his. It’s clumsy, lacking the literary perfection that his first kiss with Emily was. But he likes this better. It’s human. It’s ordinary. Until it isn’t. Until Jade’s tongue parts his lips and sparks the kindling in his veins.</p><p>She snakes her hands inside his coat and tugs him against her. He would laugh if he wasn’t so breathless, if he wasn’t so desperate to have more of her, to have her take more from him. With Emily, it’s always about what he wants. She gives him everything and denies him nothing. But Jade… Jade <em>demands</em>. He brings his other hand up to cradle her head as he deepens the kiss and drinks in the heady thrill of her fingers curling into his shirt.</p><p>“Oh, god,” she whispers when they break apart. “I can’t believe I just kissed Tom Hiddleston.”</p><p>Resting his forehead against hers, he smiles. “I thought I was just some trumped up author who spins unrealistic fantasies for desperate housewives,” he says, parroting her words from their first meeting.</p><p>“I said that, didn’t I?”</p><p>He makes a noise in agreement, caressing her cheek with his thumb. He doesn’t want to talk anymore.</p><p>He wants to kiss her again, indefinitely. He wants to do more than that. So much more.</p><p>“I have them all,” she says.</p><p>“You have what, darling?” He’s only half focused on her words, too distracted by her fingers turning lazy circles against his back.</p><p>“All of your books.” She looks up at him earnestly, as if begging him not to judge her too harshly for this confession.</p><p>He frowns in confusion. “But you hate my work.” He backs away from her—just a hair.</p><p>“I hate romance,” she corrects. “I can’t stand that girly stuff. But…I’ve read yours. And I hate that I like them.” She rushes on before he can form a response. “What you create isn’t realistic, though. It’s a dream. A beautiful dream—but a <em>dream</em>. At least, that’s been my experience.”</p><p>Her blunt assessment is the knife that flays open the heart of his dilemma with Emily. He stares at her in admiration. “Mine, as well.” He swallows back the guilt, the shame that rises like bile in his throat. If he had waited, if he hadn’t taken matters into his own hands, could he have found Jade before his monumental mistake with Emily?</p><p>Or had he needed Emily in order to discover that perfection does not equal contentment?</p><p>He’s kissing Jade again, savoring her unfettered honesty. Need uncoils in his sinews as images flash across his mind. Of his hands pulling her shirt off. Of her nails raking deep lines in his back as his lips trail down her neck, down her stomach. Of a communion so complete he hungers no more.</p><p>He wants all of this. But not with Emily in a shadowed corner of his mind.</p><p>Reluctantly, he pulls away from Jade. “I should go,” he murmurs.</p><p>“Right.” She nods, sucking in a raspy breath. “Right, you should go before I do something completely mental like invite you up.”</p><p>“Right,” he repeats, unconsciously pressing into her again. “You should save that for next time.” Her gaze flicks briefly to his lips and his resolve is nearly shattered.</p><p>“When is next time?” she asks.</p><p>“Tonight,” his mouth provides before consulting his brain. He chases the word down with, “After dinner. Maybe the cinema, too.”</p><p>She laughs softly. “How about take-away at mine? In an hour?”</p><p>“Oh god, yes.”</p><p>It takes another electrifying kiss before he can tear himself away. He stares after her as she disappears into the building. He takes the steps two at a time, exhilaration dancing in his stomach. He must look the fool with the huge grin he’s wearing, but he doesn’t care. Jade is his, or rather, he is hers. Irrevocably. The scent of her lingers on his coat, on the collar of his shirt, and he inhales deeply.</p><p>His elation is woefully short-lived, though. As he turns onto his street, onus drops in his middle like a lead weight, churning his insides. He can’t belong to Jade, not until Emily no longer belongs to him. He hates himself for what he is about to do. He hates himself more for what he did a year ago. If he hadn’t been so impetuous, so selfish. But he had been. And he still is.</p><p>Emily greets him with a smile, commenting on the length of his absence without accusation. Why can’t she be angry? Why can’t she demand where he was, who he was with? Why isn’t she jealous? Possessive? Why doesn’t she tell him that he’s a right bastard for the way he treats her sometimes? For how cold he’s become?</p><p>He’s angry. Because she will never be. It’s not in her nature. And that’s his fault.</p><p>He ignores her as he crosses the flat to his den. His hands shake only a little as he unlocks a secret compartment in his desk and retrieves a hand-bound journal his sister sent to him from India. Emily leans against the door frame, watching him with an expression so open, so trusting, he thinks that maybe he can’t do this. Not to her. Even if he’s never loved her and never will.</p><p>But Jade waits for him.</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Emily says, stepping into the room.</p><p>“It’s a curse,” he mutters under his breath. He should have destroyed it once he realized what it was; he ought to destroy it now. But it’s too late. He can only right <em>this</em> wrong. He flips through the pages until he finds the date he’s looking for. 17 October 2012.</p><p>Tears glistening in his eyes, he tears the pages from the book. He picks up the decorative lighter on his desk, and glances at Emily. Concern furrows her brow, but she remains silent.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Her frown deepens. “For what, love?”</p><p>“For everything.”</p><p>The flame doesn’t catch immediately, and for a heartbeat, he wants to change his mind, to keep living this fantasy despite his abject misery. Is he really callous enough to erase her? Couldn’t he have given her another finale—one where she lives a peaceful existence elsewhere?</p><p>The decision is made for him as the bottom of the pages curl into blackened ash. He drops them into the metal wastebin, watches them burn with an amber glow. He ventures a gaze at Emily, feeling as though he’s committed murder. The compassion in her eyes never wavers as she fades like an overexposed photograph. But then, she would be perfect, even in her demise.</p><p>He carefully replaces the journal in its hiding spot. He would have burned the entire thing, but within its pages are his mother’s miraculous recovery from stage four cancer, the publisher who finally took a chance on a young romantic, and a dozen different happy endings. He had thought Emily would be one too.</p><p>He sags into his chair, running a finger across his lips. It’s over. He’s relieved. He’s ill. He wants to laugh and weep and yell until his throat is raw.</p><p>He rises from his chair instead and leaves the flat.</p><p>Jade waits for him.</p><p>Jade, who isn’t written in his book of happily-ever-afters. And never will be.</p><p>
  <strong>~FIN~</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>A/N:</strong> Thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>